Reconstructing Madonna
by Tears of Mercury
Summary: From Chapter Seven: 'Michael wonders if they’re afraid of breaking themselves or each other.' Max and Liz, six years after Ch-ch-changes. Reviews are love.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Jason Katims and Melinda Metz own Roswell. I don't. I only own Aaron - and he isn't even in the story for the first ten chapters.

**Summary:** After Liz leaves for boarding school and Maria heads off to New York, Isabel, Max and Michael struggle to put their lives back together and to achieve that ever-elusive thing called healing. Maria finds success and tries to forget that she ever knew who Michael Guerin or the other aliens were. Liz has made iron-clad friendships with her old boarding school roommate Eileen Burrows and Eileen's older sister Serena, but with out-of-control powers and hellish nightmares she's just hanging on by her fingertips. As in any halfway ordered universe, things fall apart - and somehow, everyone is brought together in the center of the madness by Liz's most chilling premonition yet.

**Pairings:** Max/Liz, Isabel/Jesse, Michael/Maria, Kyle/Eileen, and Serena/OC

**Rating:** Mature

**Warnings:** Probably not for the younger readers or for anyone who's rather sensitive. I'm giving warning, if I've been over-cautious in my ratings before this isn't the case now. This is probably a firm 'R.'

**A/N:** Hello again, Roswellians. :) This story started out as a one-shot, grew into a two-shot, and has steadily evolved into its own weird thing. After posting the first ten chapters on RF, I'm finally getting around to posting it here. I'll probably update once or twice a week - although if someone asks for more frequent updates I'm not opposed to getting up what I have. If you like, review. If you don't like, you can still review. If you like and don't feel like reviewing, this is also your prerogative. I promise not to kill you with my death-ray vision for not upping my review count. :P That said, I think I'll end this rather cheerful author's note and let you get started on the angst. Best of luck!

Part One

"Liz, come on. We can't keep doing this."

Tears trembling on the tips of eyelashes. Stuttering hands and shaky breaths. It cuts her straight to the marrow.

There's nothing she can do, she tells herself. Still she stands there, paralyzed and waiting for the inevitable rush of excuses and rationalizations.

Instead, only:

"I know. I just… don't know what else to do."

Exasperated, torn green eyes avoid brown ones. Perfectly manicured fingernails digging into the palms of her hands and she swallows, dodging the guilt and empathy. There's only energy for one last, weak resistance.

"It's not ethical."

"I know! But I have to do _something_. God, you think I want to be like this? I'll pay you, I just… you're my best friend. And I can't go to anyone else."

Serena lets her eyelids fall down, shaking her head back and forth. The motion upsets the black curls perched on her shoulders, and she feels her back muscles cramping. It's too hard to say no to her when she's like this.

Broken.

Confused.

Most likely unstable.

"I'm going to end up screwing you up more than I help you. You know that, right?"

"I can't tell anyone else. And I can't… I don't need a friend. I need a doctor."

Is it a doctor or a best friend? Liz can't seem to decide anymore than she can. They stand motionless. Facing each other, maybe to challenge or maybe to help. It's unusually hard to tell when Liz is trying to be antagonistic.

Harsh sobs break the silence, a barely contained wail hiding somewhere underneath them. Her whole body is contorting, the palsies so bad it's a wonder she's not already seizing on the floor or shooting off green sparks.

The urge to hug this friend, this utterly lost woman-child, almost overtakes her.

People like Liz are not supposed to be seen when they're helpless.

She sighs.

Was there every really a doubt?

"Come on then. You have to be up at five tomorrow."

-

"So you met someone."

"No. I mean, it was just some guy from work. He said it was a group thing, but then… I didn't leave when I found out. And it just kind of progressed from there."

Liz's fingers flutter as they run through her closely-cropped hair. A moment of best-friend envy stabs Serena, because Liz has possibly the most gorgeous hair in the world. For all the good it'll ever do her when she wears a boy's haircut.

The muscle spasms haven't stopped. Her gaze is distant, with no room in it for her new life and new friends and new memories.

Serena wonders how, when she deals with emotionally isolated patients every day, it's Liz's emotional distancing that always manages to intimidate her.

There are walls around her.

Face shuttered.

Jaw clenched.

Poised for a fight and begging to disappear.

She doesn't rush her.

"I'm not made of stone. I have… physical needs, and it's not like I expect Max to be waiting around for me. Obviously. But I-" She breaks off.

The psychiatrist in Serena comes to the forefront. Demands that she wait just a little longer. Then, when nothing further is forthcoming, she prods gently, "You what, Liz?"

Long, elegant fingers attached to a tiny palm suddenly shoot a bolt of green energy into the corner of the room. It hits an end table. The furnishing collapses, legs crumpling under a weight suddenly too heavy to bear.

Serena jumps, half-startled and half-frightened. That kind of power will always seem unnatural to her.

Immediately Liz is up and out of her chair, moving towards the damage. Cursing under her breath.

"Honey, leave it," she commands gently. She cringes at the endearment. Wonders how much longer she'll be able to pretend this is actually doing her friend any good.

Liz ignores her. She stoops next to the pile of sawdust and screws, poking at the splintered wood and trying to fix it with her hands. Eventually she erects a pathetic skeleton of the piece Serena bought for over a hundred dollars. Eyebrows furrowed in concentration, she waves her hand over it.

Nothing happens.

She tries again. Still nothing.

Her heart hurts to be watching this.

"I can't even fix a damn end table. God, you'd _think_ he would have given me something useful with all of this power!" Her hands are sparking again.

Serena moves to her quickly, tugging on the hunched form. So tense it's a wonder she isn't made of stone. "Liz, you have to calm down. Remember the breathing exercises I taught you? Try to use them now."

Ever the good patient, the shaggy head of hair comes to rest between two too-apparent knees. Her back rises and falls, quickly at first and then more slowly. Her noisy breaths echo in the room.

When it comes, her voice is muffled. "He wanted to sleep with me. I knew that. He didn't even have to… I just… I tried. I let him kiss me, but I just… _couldn't_."

She doesn't say anything.

What can she say? _'Get over it?' 'Move on with your life?'_ Liz has tried, so many times. Long gone is the defiant teenage girl still set on playing the victim and hoping that Max would somehow fix everything. Fix her. But whether it's days' or years' worth of progress, when the setbacks come they almost destroy her. And she's not strong enough to endure that many more.

The story's not over yet. "He slid his hand under the hem of my shirt. And all I could think was that, we hadn't even been kissing a full minute, and already he was… I was already half drunk. But I still couldn't do it. Not even – not even a one night stand."

There's bitterness there. Contempt for the boy who _could_ escape for a night.

"Liz, you're following a passive behavior pattern. You didn't intend to be alone with him, obviously didn't _want_ to be alone with him – but you stayed anyway. If you feel you need alcohol to have sex, you probably shouldn't be having it."

Liz does her best to listen. Her head is still somewhere else, though. Like always. "I just… I wanted fireworks. I wanted flashes. I wanted to…"

A choked laugh; a sigh expelled like a sob.

She lifts her head up, the resentment and self-loathing making her features ugly. "… to see into someone's soul."

They sit in silence for a long time. It's not uncomfortable, but some detached part of Serena notes that she feels the urge to climb the walls.

Ever-strong shoulders slump in defeat.

"I didn't want him at all."

-

Serena sits with her for another twenty minutes. Does her best to respond clinically to everything her best friend says. By the time Liz leaves the end table is repaired, but there's a thin sheen of sweat on the small woman's upper lip when she tugs on her jacket.

The powers are too much for her.

Too much energy and not a big enough outlet.

Too much raw ability but next to no control.

The check on her desk laughs at her. She rebels against the idea of cashing it, knowing Liz will fly off the handle if she doesn't. More than even an excuse, it is an apology. For someone who hasn't apologized nearly enough in the past it's important to do so copiously now.

How is she to help her friend?

She won't rest until she does, because Liz was and remains to be a friend first and foremost; but it's this that keeps her from being any real help. She can't accept that there's nothing Serena the doctor can do. And Liz would never let Serena the friend close enough to help her heal.

A Harvard master's tells her she should know better, but the fact that she can't help is damaging her faith in herself. As a physician. As a person. She and Eileen both feel the sting of having a best friend who gives everything but will accept nothing in return. Liz does penance for crimes she's committed in the past.

And crimes that carry into the future.

She will never forget what Liz asked her after confiding about the future version of her love. Wide-eyed like a child reprimanded for a trespass they don't understand, she asked if everything bad in the world now had somehow stemmed from her. If the death of her best friend and birth of a new child were not the only gains and losses in a world she didn't quite fit in anymore.

Was 9/11 her fault? Were numerous hate crimes, rapes, molestations somehow a direct result of desperate and careless actions?

What do you say to that?

_'No, of course not! Thinking any differently is stupid and self-absorbed and damaging.' _

It's what she thinks, but it's not what Liz wants to hear. And there's an infinitesimally small chance that it's not the truth.

That chance is enough to drive Liz crazy.

Tears slip down her face.

They leave, providing a momentary respite from all of her insecurities and questions. She doesn't consider what will happen if Liz's connection with her otherworldly soul mate flares up again. She doesn't question what will happen when she gets a live-in boyfriend or husband, how she'll explain a friend showing up at their door during the night in hysterics five or six times a year. She doesn't even wonder why the visits are getting more frequent lately.

Right now she just wants to get back to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Part Two

Part Two

"I fucking hate him!"

Eileen paces around the small apartment like a caged animal, her round cheeks flushed and her eyes glittering dangerously. Anger is coiled tight in her chest, begging to acquaint itself with her and be released back into the atmosphere.

She has never been one to deny her impulses.

Papers fall to the floor in a flurry as her arm sweeps over the surface of her desk, knocking any and everything important to the floor. This has all the makings of a first-class temper-tantrum.

She can see it all in her older sister's eyes. The thinning tolerance. The irritation and that ever-present question of _'Aren't you getting a little too old for this?'_

Serena isn't in the habit of surprising her. There's monotony and the beginnings of a sigh in her voice as she replies. "Lee, you don't even know him."

They've had this conversation.

Five hundred times.

Eileen still hasn't gotten tired of it.

"I don't need to know anything but that he cheated on her, altered her DNA, and permanently screwed her up. She's a fucking basket-case, Rena!" The words are spit out; sharpened and intended for a phantom. Her sister is the only one who hears them.

And she sure as hell doesn't seem to be listening.

Serena tilts her head in acknowledgement. "Yeah. But a lot of that… a _lot_ of that's not his fault. Liz was a hurting and confused teenager who made some pretty self-destructive decisions."

The twenty-four-year-old is talking again before Serena's had a chance to finish. "Yeah, but who wouldn't be messing up right and left in that situation? She sustained a fatal bullet would, was brought back from the dead, and then had to start lying to everyone that she loved. And that _asshole_ just sat back _playing_ her and had the nerve to act like a self-righteous _prick_ when she got tired of it!"

Eileen is not a stupid woman. She knows that there's likely another side to this. The sick, rarely-used intellectual part of her brain would probably be delighting in that obviously twisted and inhuman point of view if the person left alone and hurting wasn't her best friend. But it seems that Liz is concerned solely with the other side of things, and her sister is too busy looking at things from everyone's point of view to champion the fragile woman.

Someone has to. Maria relocated to Europe years ago and disappears into the recording studio for months at a time. Alex is dead. Liz's mother stopped talking to her when she flunked her first semester at Winnaman.

Her father still believes this is a phase she's going through.

_'It's not a fucking phase!'_ She wishes she could scream that at him, get in his face in the hopes that he'll see reason even if he won't see his daughter. That's a fruitless wish, though. In his own way Jeffrey Parker is as blind as her own father.

Is there any man in her best friend's life who hasn't abandoned her in some way, shape, or form?

But Max Evans takes the cake. And if she wasn't worried about exposing Liz, she'd hunt him down and shoot him herself.

"You're right," Serena allows, "she can hardly be faulted for a lot of this. We're not the ones who get to decide, though."

And just like that it's over. Her face crumples.

Why is this happening to them?

Liz is the one who sat all night with her in the hospital when Tommy was dying of a drug overdose. Liz is the one who understood about her parents, and didn't feel the need to ream her out whenever she was a brat. Liz is the one who didn't try to shrink her when she experimented and got a girlfriend freshman year of college.

And Liz is also the one who's been having nightmares and crying fits since they met six years ago. She's the one who criticizes herself for not being curvier, blonder, more alien.

She's the one who views herself as worthless because at sixteen, she couldn't successfully save the world and keep everyone happy. Guilt is killing her. She welcomes it, makes overcompensation and terror her friends. But how much longer can she continue before she's too tired?

It can't last forever.

Her friend doesn't deserve this. And all of Serena's conjectures, and "objective" observations, are making things worse.

But maybe that's just the frustration talking. Maybe she's just sick of not possessing what Liz needs. To heal. To love someone wholly again.

To not be so ashamed of the pretty-fucking-fantastic person she turned out to be.

"You've read her journal," Serena continues. "You know what happened."

"Yeah," Eileen retorts. "After seeing the worst of humanity, Romeo decided to shelve his altogether."

For the first time her sister shows something resembling emotion. And of course, because it _is_ her sister that she's dealing with and because Serena came here from a long day at the office, that emotion is anger.

"Dammit, Eileen! Do you think that this is helping her? Having us fighting over someone from her past, talking about her when she's not here? She's not stupid! She knows when something is up, and knowing that this is affecting us too is only going to make her feel worse!"

The two sisters glare at each other. Twenty-four-year-old frown lines mirror twenty-nine-year-old ones. Neither woman is willing to stand down.

This could go on for hours.

It has before.

"The problem," she says tightly, "is that he isn't _in_ her past. He's not just in her heart and in her memories, he's a frigging part of her body. And _obviously_, he's not any more willing to let go now than he was to track her down and work things out the first time around!"

"There were letters," Serena points out.

Eileen snorts. "Yeah, two of them. Real persistent, that one."

They grow silent at the sound of Liz's scratchy and warm voice traveling from the outside hallway. She's saying a quick hello to Mrs. Morris, which means they have less than a minute before she's inside. "He didn't mean to break her heart, you know," Serena finally says. Quietly. Sadly.

Her answering chuckle is mirthless. "Some people don't have to do any one thing to be bad for you. They can crush you just by being who they are."

Sometime during this last exchange her roommate has opened the front door. Light, almost silent footsteps announce her presence. "Hi, guys. Who're we arguing over, Robert? Hate to say it, Ree, but I wasn't too fond of him either." Liz is all teasing smiles, her every-which-way hair framing a grinning face. From the right angle it's almost possible to believe it's real.

The problem isn't that she's not happy to see them. She always is. But every time she sees her friend become content, Eileen waits a second to see the internal light bulb ignite. The one that tells her that it's wrong to be happy. After that, those infectious smiles always seem a little more forced.

Serena's answering giggle is completely natural. "You're right. God, I think I was still in my Backstreet Boys stage back then. I can only thank my parents for threatening to disinherit me if I followed through and ran off to New York with him."

Her sister is such a faker. She shouldn't be allowed in an occupation that focuses on fixing people.

But damn it all if she isn't right. Right at this moment, Liz isn't screaming or crying or looking grossly unhappy. They should do everything in their power to keep it that way.

So she puts on a cheery face, bumps hips with her sister, and says merrily, "Sure would've saved me some trouble if you had." Her chin trembles slightly with the effort of reigning in emotions that were previously free for all to see, but one look at the tired circles under Liz's eyes is all the incentive she needs.

Liz's expression is unreadable for a minute as she observes the two of them. Eileen raises a questioning eyebrow, her signature smirk falling in place. It used to make Liz uncomfortable. Now she looks to it for reassurance, as regularly as clockwork.

The short brunette shakes her head. The grin quirking her lips suddenly becomes less energetic and more sincere. "I don't know… there's just this weird air around the two of you sometimes. It always freaks me out." She shakes her hands, as if ridding them of culpability.

Eileen smiles agreeably like an idiot.

This is getting so tired.

Some day soon she will forget caution and find Max Evans. She will yell, scream, punch, and scratch until he heals whatever it is that he broke. She'll ensure her friend some peace.

It's not some day soon yet. "So Serena, you were mentioning setting me up with someone?" She does her best to make an effort.

Serena laughs giddily. Shoots her a thankful smile when Liz isn't looking. "Oh, that's right! But first, you have to promise not to shoot me down as soon as I tell you his name."

Her eyes try to roll up into her head. "Good Lord, how bad is this going to be?"

"His name is Edwin, and…"

"Oh God," Liz laughs, hiding her mouth with her hand. "'Edwin and Eileen'?" The roommates exchange an amused glance.

"And," Serena continues, "He's a really nice guy. He does maintenance work for us."

"So he's a janitor?" Eileen says. Disdain creeps into her voice.

Liz shoots her an amused but chastising look. Eileen merely shrugs unapologetically. She doesn't consider herself a snob, but being raised by socialites has definitely left its mark.

Serena corrects her patiently. "No, he's a maintenance worker."

Liz gets caught in the middle when Eileen turns to her and says skeptically, "Liz, help me out here. Is there a difference?" She's vaguely aware of playing this up because her adrenaline hasn't bottomed out yet.

"Um, not that I'm aware of," Liz replies, smothering a laugh. It's not loud or mirth-filled. It's quiet and soft and painfully, beautifully real.

A rare sight these days.

On impulse Eileen throws her arms around her, hanging on for dear life when Liz stiffens. Soon she relaxes, and they cling to each other in that boneless, sisterly way best friends do.

"Is this a private hug, or can anyone join in?" Serena asks.

Liz chuckles. Extends an arm in invitation. "Come here, you big dope."

Thin arms wrap around both of them, and she feels a small palm run soothingly over her hair. There are a thousand emotions railing through her, but somehow the moment is immortalized as weightless.

Maybe, just maybe, things aren't as bad as she's been making them out to be.

Maybe they'll be all right.

-

This hope lasts until 3 AM.

The screaming starts then, like always.

She grinds her teeth, clenching at her comforter to keep from jumping up.

Three years ago while in the midst of a particularly gruesome nightmare, Liz went pretty much crazy. Destroyed the whole room.

Blasted Eileen.

Now she's not allowed to go in there at night. It hurts Liz when they argue about that, so she doesn't mention it anymore. There's not much of a point when she'll just get the brush-off.

She never did ask what the nightmare was about.


	3. Chapter 3

...

But because truly being here is so much; because everything here  
apparently needs us, this fleeting world, which in some strange way keeps calling to us. Us,  
the most fleeting of all.

...

-- Rainer Maria Rilke

Part Three

Kyle is late.

Again.

He sighs softly and turns his focus back to the newspaper in his hands. By now his friend's perpetual tardiness is pretty much part of the routine.

In twenty or so minutes Kyle will show up, unruffled and unapologetic. He'll order some of the outdoor café's awful coffee and put it on Jesse's tab, and after snitching the sports section of the paper he'll jingle his car keys and they'll head out.

Sometimes it's to Arizona. Other times it's a smaller hospital in California. It all depends on how much time they have.

Today it's going to have to be somewhere close. He was only able to get half the day off and has it on good authority that Kyle's got a date lined up for later. This is a rare occurrence, and Kyle will need all the time he can spare to prepare. Despite, Max thinks with a smirk, the fact that he has a 'stellar personality' and 'pecs of steel', his friend hasn't had a long-term relationship since Bush was reelected.

Then again, neither has he.

For one blinding, painful moment he lets all the memories rush back. He thinks of her hair, and the heavenly shade of olive her skin turns in the spring. He remembers what it felt like to look into her eyes and see acceptanceforgivenesslongingknowing… and love.

He remembers how that felt, too.

But that was a long time ago.

And usually when he thinks of her now he's thinking of the sight of her back as she walked away so many times, and of hard eyes and stone-cold accusations.

An emotionless Dear John letter and wondering, _who is this person and what did they do with the woman I'm in love with?_

She never even gave him a chance to make it up to her. From the minute she heard about Tess she took back the part of herself she'd only ever given to him.

And if he held back, too, at least he was honest about it.

Old Timberlands scuffing the sidewalk. How characteristic is it that even his footfall demands attention? Max thinks.

He doesn't need words to transmit his wry, chatty mood – somehow it flies through the air and cheerfully announces itself. There's some new development he's just dying to share. And if experience is anything to go on, chances are it's something the sitting man already knows.

Possibly because they actually are friends these days or possibly because irritating the hell out of Kyle is his sole source of amusement, Max pretends he hasn't noticed his arrival yet. Counts off the seconds in his head. _One, two, three –_

He coughs.

Bounces impatiently on the heels of his feet.

Sighs loudly when Max still doesn't acknowledge him. "Well, don't rush to pull out a chair for me or anything," he says grumpily.

Max looks up. Can't fight the smirk any longer. "Kyle," he greets, nodding.

"You're a real sadist sometimes, Evans," he grumbles. He sits down in the other chair, drumming his hands on the table and looking around impatiently for a waitress. When he turns his attention back to Max, their eyes hold. He sags and lets out a long groan. "You know. I can't believe you know. Does everyone?"

Max shakes his head. "She hasn't gotten a chance to tell Michael yet. I only know because she wanted me to make sure everything looked okay before she broke the news to Jesse."

Kyle snorts in disbelief. "You mean this was unexpected? With the way Mr. Evans has been going on you'd think he's been trying to knock her up for months."

Instead of having the intimidating affect it is intended to, Max's semi-offended look only seems to spur Kyle's sarcasm. "Okay, forgive me. He's been planning to plant his seed in her womb in a wondrous, miraculous expression of their love for months. Jesus, he's already looking at names. The kid's what, about as developed as a guppy right now, right? And he's already naming it Anthony or Christopher."

He studies him intently. "You've been spending way too much time with Michael," he finally announces.

Blue eyes peering up from beneath heavy brown bangs give Kyle the distinctive air of a kicked puppy. "Well, who else am I gonna hang out with? It's hard to keep up with your living arrangements these days, and Isabel only calls me in when she needs girlfriend time. Whatever the hell that is."

"After moaning for years about how aliens took over your life, I can't believe you haven't made a single human friend after we finally set you free," Max retorts.

Secretly, he's glad for this.

When Isabel announced that she and Jesse were moving to San Francisco, Max and Michael had been keeping a tight lid on their problems with the feds. Her marriage was already rocky and they knew the news had the potential to capsize it completely. And while neither of them really believed the relationship would last, they knew Jesse made Isabel happier than she'd been in a long time and weren't inclined to see her return to the mess she'd been post-Alex.

At the time it had only been the two of them under suspicion, so they'd dealt with it on their own. Unfortunately, they had no way of knowing when Khivar or the Special Unit would turn their attentions to her. Leaving her unprotected wasn't an option.

As it turns out, Jesse has a better weirdness threshold than they'd given him credit for. He genuinely loves Isabel, and after spending some time around him Max has had to admit that any control issues his sister's husband might have pale in comparison to his own, or even those of their adoptive father's. In short, Jesse Ramirez is nothing Isabel can't handle.

It doesn't hurt that he's got a gun and damn good aim, either.

But they didn't know that then. So Kyle's decision to tag along, however impure his motivations were, had been viewed by the two brothers as a godsend.

It was Max and Michael, ironically enough, who ended up benefiting the most from Kyle's presence. Having a human around – even if the human is Kyle – helps to anchor them. Whether it's obligation or genuine friendship, something about that bond helps give Max and Michael the will to run from the Special Unit, to care one way or another if the federal agents chasing them want them dead.

And for Max at least, sometimes it's hard to find a reason to stay on Earth without Liz.

Besides, after seven and a half years, Kyle is still convinced that at some point he's going to become an alien glo-stick, and says he'd prefer to be with his own kind when it happens.

Michael finds this disturbingly amusing.

For Max it just brings back pieces of a past better left buried.

He hopes that the fact they haven't heard from Liz in so long is because her changes are under control. That, as painful as it is to contemplate, she just doesn't need or want him in her life. It's still a hell of a lot better than any alternatives.

Maria said Liz was doing well the last time they saw each other. Still, he wonders sometimes. He thinks he probably always will.

She must know that he would be there in a heartbeat if she asked. That he gets it now.

Yes, he hurt her. No, it wasn't intentional. And maybe he didn't have the right to expect her forgiveness when he wasn't ready to trust her fully again. Maybe they needed time apart and maybe he should have been better at showing her how much he respected her, how sorry he was for everything.

He glances at Kyle and sees him looking at him worriedly. His eyes are crinkled in concern. "You probably don't want to hear about this, though. I mean, this whole thing with Isabel and Jesse has to be like a slap in the face to you and Michael. Knowing that it could have been you and Liz or him and Maria."

His hands ball into fists, crumpling and tearing the paper in his grasp.

A baby with Liz.

How many times did he dream of that? How many times did he hope that after finding his son Liz would look at him and somehow forget that he wasn't hers? Those dreams are gone now, fallen at his feet the second Liz lost faith in him.

He wonders if she _ever_ believed in him.

"Look," he says, doing his best to sidestep the issue (because isn't that what he does best?), "what if I drive this time? At least on the way down."

Kyle raises his eyebrows. Laughs. "Evans, even if I did trust you with my car, you're forgetting the fact that you haven't driven a car in years. Jesus, you don't even have a license, do you?"

Of course he doesn't.

How can he, when he doesn't exist?

-

Michael's lying to Isabel.

Max is too, of course, but it's different. Isabel knows that he's not _really_ at work right now, the same way she knows that he's not _really_ doing better and that the nightmares haven't _really_ stopped. She actually believes that Michael's spending his Saturday blasting rocks in the wilderness.

Instead he's holed up in his apartment trying to develop a resistance to the Special Unit's serum.

When they realized that MetaChem was supplying much more important customers than a few Podunk pharmacies, Max's first reaction had been to run.

Michael had already raided their storerooms and been captured on five different security cameras by then. Naturally.

It had been over a year since Maria's impulsive return to Roswell and Max hadn't talked to his parents in months. Faking their deaths was easy enough. They fled from New Mexico, Max chased by nauseating reminders of the White Room and Michael toting the serum that had once rendered Max helpless.

When Max asked him why he bothers, Michael told him that the only way the government's getting him is in a body bag. This failed to be comforting.

What Michael doesn't seem to get is that there's a reason the serum hasn't been tampered with in over fifty years. It does its job with a terrible, horrifying precision.

There is no getting used to it. There is no escaping the sickening, disoriented feeling that crowds you upon injection.

He should know. He's spent the better part of a decade drowning in that sensation every time he closes his eyes.

"Hey, Miracle Worker, wake up. We're heeeere."

Someone should tell Kyle that whining makes his voice sound like nails on a chalkboard.

He pulls himself up. Partly glad (because honestly, the crappy backseat cushions were giving him five different kinds of knots) and partly apprehensive (because the healings will never dull in intensity, and he knows he wouldn't want them to).

"So what's the plan, Max?"

Max looks at the hospital critically. It's small. That means easier to navigate. But it's probably also going to be ten times harder to get into unnoticed.

"Just keep the car here. I shouldn't be inside for more than an hour. If I'm not back by then, I guess you should just leave me."

Kyle grips the steering wheel hard. Knuckles whitening. "Don't give me any of that shit, Evans. You'll be fine." He pauses. Turns around to consider his serious friend. Clearing his throat uncomfortably, he admits, "And even if you weren't, there's no way I'd be leaving without you."

They both know it.

But still, it's a bittersweet kind of reassurance to hear it spoken out loud.

"Thanks, Kyle. And for more than just…"

"Yeah, yeah. Go. Do your magic. I want to see us on the five o'clock news."

-

He doesn't look at anyone over fifty.

When he first started doing this, he healed whoever he saw first. You get a lot of stroke and heart attack victims that way, though, and most of them are either too far gone to be helped or genuinely don't want to be alive anymore.

He's not in the business of saving people against their will.

Children's oncology is his specialty.

Cancer is trickier to obliterate than most illnesses. It's insidious and clever and sometimes he feels like he's the one dying after healing a terminal patient.

But cancer also takes the most innocents. And if the choice to heal an adult can be excruciating, there's never been a second of hesitation when it comes to the kids.

Because he thinks that maybe they're the only ones with any real right to live. With adults it can be harder to tell. There are too many sins and good deeds to weigh; too much trouble comparing their desire to live to that niggling compulsion they have to give up. Before he knows it he's playing God.

He generally tries to avoid that, too.

He pauses outside the neonatal nursery.

It's hard for him to be here. For obvious reasons.

They're still the ones who need him the most.

The first one he heals is a little girl. He's guessing she was born at about five months. Underdeveloped lungs, sky-high temperature.

She's a fighter. All she needs from him is a nudge.

He swears she smiles at him after he's done.

It's been an eventful hour. He's feeling guilty, because Max knows he doesn't have the energy for even one more.

He still scans the boy sleeping next to her.

Gasps. Whole body shaking. Tears stinging his eyes.

Multiple birth defects, including an extremely weak heart. Some sort of internal damage he can't really get a handle on.

Even with Max's help there wouldn't have been a chance.

_Then –_

He feels her. For the first time in years, he can feel her invading every pore of his body, wrapping around him and refusing to let go.

Her warmth. Her beauty. Her compassion.

Her overwhelming anguish that she can't save this baby.

And he's not sure if what he's feeling is alien-related or true or even the slightest bit real, but he thinks it's telling him what he needs to do.

"Come on, baby. Just look at me. Just for a minute," he urges.

Sure enough, agitated brown eyes open. They peer out of a sickly and jaundiced face, but they're still the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

He focuses on his favorite memory. The abandoned van and Liz.

With one touch, one memory, he tries to show this child everything he'll miss.

The overwhelming joy and sorrow that are so often intermingled in this crazy, unreasonable world.

The fierce will to live if it means _just one more minute like this one_.

A love so fearsome and earth-shattering that it has no difficulty healing everything it destroys.

Knowledge that it's worth enduring humanity's worst if you get to glimpse its best.

He tries to show him the transcendental.

Hopes like he's never hoped for anything that somehow, some way, he's succeeded.

-

He stumbles out of the emergency exit sobbing.

So glad, so fucking _grateful_, that it wasn't _his_ son in there.

It could've been. For awhile he thought it would be.

But in the end Zan is safe and (hopefully) happy and he… is alone.

He's so tired of being alone.

Kyle's voice breaks through the animalistic howls (are they his? He thinks they must be). "Aw, shit. Max… Max."

He cries harder.

An arm winds around his shoulder. Helps him back to the car. "It's going to be okay. It's going to be okay, Max. Come on, let's get you home."

Home.

The word worms its way into his heart, and he immediately thinks of Liz. Knows that she's the truest home he's ever known, and that she's lost to him now.

Home is Isabel, and the baby she's carrying inside of her. Home is Michael in all of his rash, paranoid glory.

Fuck, home right now is Kyle Valenti.

And he can't find it in him to complain.

It's more than that baby will ever know.

He's glad he shared the person and the love that will always feel like true north to him.

He just hopes it was enough.


	4. Chapter 4

Part Four

Hair in place. Sweatpants on and sheets smoothed.

Strong and determined and God help the hybrid that tries to get in her way, because Isabel Evans-Ramirez is ready for battle.

Unlike Michael, who spent the whole day blasting rocks and melting metal in the desert for practice; and unlike Max, who snuck off to Orange County to heal another batch of terminally ill kids, she's been saving up her energy all day.

She reread all her dream journals. She lovingly pushed off her poor, sexually frustrated husband when he made a play for some action.

The youngest Czech seems to understand the point behind all this, thankfully, and she hasn't had a lick of morning sickness or fatigue to contend with today. Her body hasn't been this cooperative in weeks.

All in all, she's at her dreamwalking best.

And her tortured brother can just deal with it.

She's not letting go of the rings under his eyes anymore. She's not conveniently forgetting the muffled cries that come from the guest room every time he stays the night (as if she could if she tried).

She is, however, ignoring the stonily whispered "let it go" she receives every time she badgers him about this.

She's conveniently forgetting how much her brother prizes his privacy.

This has gone on uninterrupted long enough.

For a brief moment she misses Liz Parker.

They had next to nothing in common, made no real effort to get to know each other, and generally avoided extended periods of contact.

But they also understood each other.

Isabel was probably less upset about the Kyle fiasco than Liz's best friend. She knew better than anyone the lengths you had to go to if you were going to protect yourself.

She felt sorry for Max, but thought maybe it was for the better. He could focus on other people, like she and Michael, and other things, like getting better.

_(He never got better. Liz never slept with Kyle. Pandora's Box turned out to be a bitch in more ways than one.)_

Despite all of this, Liz would come through when they needed someone. Liz would not make a huge production of helping just because she and Max were on the outs or side with him just because they weren't. When push came to shove, she trusted Isabel.

Isabel trusted her.

But Liz is gone. She wasn't doing a hell of a whole lot to help when she was here, either.

It's time to stop hanging on.

"You're going to dreamwalk him, aren't you?"

Her husband slides into bed beside her, his dark brown arms encircling her waist. She cuddles into him. They're affectionate this way.

"It needs to be done," she replies, avoiding the reprimand she knows she'll find in those puppy-dog eyes. Years of practice with Max have made her invulnerable to cuteness and other people's disappointment.

Mostly, anyway – her stomach is in knots, thinking he might be upset with her. That maybe he forgets how human her reasons are because of her alien methods.

Jesse surprises her, like always. "Yeah, probably." San Francisco wind breezes through the open bedroom window, ruffling her hair. They turn to face each other. Eye to eye, shoulder to shoulder. Equals. "Just… if you get in there and there's anything too kinky, promise to snap out of it as quickly as possible?" he teases. A grin spears his lips.

He knows she's determined.

He knows she's nervous.

And he's trying to help.

Blinking back hormone-driven tears. Clutching his hand like a lifeline. Hoping she's strong enough to do this and knowing it's a ridiculous fear.

Her power is special. It's harder for her to get tired because her body is completely at rest when she utilizes it. Observation is still her strongest point, but over the years her ability to change the dreams she looks in on has increased.

That's largely thanks to her husband.

She told Jesse everything after Liz and Maria left.

She was so afraid that if she didn't, they would end up like Max and Liz. That he would leave her. And that maybe, after knowing the truth, he would leave anyway.

Instead he asked if she would form a connection with him. Then, the next day, he came home from work with a stack of books about lucid dreams and dream research.

He told her she could help people. That she was special.

He got extremely lucky that night.

There's no need for a picture. He's sleeping across the hall, and even if he wasn't she knows his face and his dream signature as well as her own.

_So stop procrastinating, Isabel,_ she tells herself. _Do it already._

And so she does.

-

The white room hasn't changed at all.

His screams are salt in old wounds. The desperate, pathetic sound of his tears is a new wound altogether.

Electrodes burn holes on his chest and neck and face. His arms, strapped down, bulge with exertion as he fights – a mouse caught in a trap.

Somehow he's on the table and in a tub of ice water at the same time.

Shivering and sweating. Shouting and whimpering.

She does her best to focus on the prepared words. _'It's your dream, Max. You control it. Step outside yourself and see your fears clearly instead of looking at them from the inside. Then tell me what you want to change.'_

It's hard to do when she's pushing down bile.

A scalpel slices open his chest.

Liz Parker lays in the corner of the room bleeding, her brown hair matted with grime and her hands crackling with alien energy. Her name is ripped from him in an agonized, enraged yell.

_"LIIIIIZ!" _

Isabel stands transfixed for a moment, horrified fascination paralyzing her when the long-dead Agent Pierce stoops next to DreamLiz. A syringe rests in his hand. His eyebrows are raised in expectation.

Liz looks up, face half-dead and exhausted. "Do it," she whispers.

Voice grainy.

Eyes hardened.

So beaten and so very hateful.

Remembering herself, Isabel moves toward her brother, quickening her pace as Pierce also draws near. The sick bastard is smiling.

"You could have had the world, and you chose captivity," he murmurs.

Her hand rises to blast him.

She stops, remembers herself.

Then something unexpected:

Liz's image blurs and shudders, distorting and stretching until a second small, dark-haired woman appears. Her eyes are panicked, disgusted. She is trapped.

She claws her way out of her catatonic counterpart inch by inch.

Her nails break. Blood runs down her fingers, staining her dark clothes. As her head fully emerges her cropped hair tousles, making her look unhealthy and haggard. She is trembling from head to foot.

One word falls from her mouth, plea and condemnation. _"Max."_

Isabel shakes her head, ignores the chilling pull to this garish estimation of the girl she once expected to call family.

"Max," she intones, turning back to him and grasping his hand, "you are in control here. It's your dream. Your mind. Step away from this, and decide what you want to change."

He turns fevered, delirious eyes on her. "Izzy?"

"Max, listen to me. You have to do it on your own. Get out of the chair. Find me," she urges.

And hopes to God she's getting through here.

Her words break through the haze, and slowly, painfully, he moves into a sitting position. The bonds holding him dissolve.

She smiles. Cries. Hands held out in invitation.

"Come on."

Max looks up at her warily. Makes a decision and trusts her.

Sensing what he wants before he does, she makes it happen. His hesitation turns to wonder when the white room dissolves around him. They sit in the middle of the desert, by the old radio tower. Isabel steps back.

And then Liz is there, stepping up to him and cupping his face. He collapses into her. Clings to her shirt like a child seeking refuge. "I never should have let you go. You were my whole world."

"I thought you didn't want me," she says, voice small.

"You are the _only_ thing I wanted in any of this." His voice breaks, teary and defeated. Liz's long hair whips around in the wind and the edges caress his face as she makes gentle shushing sounds. Her lips descend on his.

Isabel looks away, wanting to give them privacy. Does a double-take. Frowns.

Why is the other Liz still there? And why is she still trapped in the White Room, when Isabel and Max are here, with the Liz her brother wants to see?

He looks at his sister. Fails to see the diminutive figure huddled in a padded cell. "How long do I have with her?" The worry lines around his face are easing for the first time in months.

"It's your decision. You can stay here as long as you need," she tells him sweetly. Her head pounds.

Something is wrong here. SadLiz shouldn't be in the background. Isabel shouldn't feel another presence redirecting her dreamwalk. This has never happened, shouldn't happen, and she's starting to get scared.

"Thank you, Izzy," Max whispers. He turns back to his Liz. Touches her hand. Bestows a kiss on pliant, soft lips.

She isn't needed here anymore.

The thought breaks the last of her control. Without warning she is harshly thrown into the White Room, stumbling toward SadLiz's beaten and bruised body.

-

They have company.

Nicholas, the child general.

Pierce, the monster.

Future Max, the judge and jury.

And Tess, the betrayer.

Nicholas is in the middle of a sneering monologue. He holds Future Max by the throat, his other hand glowing menacingly against his captive's head. "… just a stupid human. So weak. So useless. No wonder he wanted the queen."

Pierce sits on the floor next to her. What can only be described as a dagger glitters in the blinding light, and he runs the tip over the tiny veins in her forearm. "Just say the word," he whispers seductively. "One word, and it's all over. He goes free and you get to rest in peace." She shies away when he pushes the tip into her wrist.

"Please," Future Max pleads.

"Not again." Tears chase down her cheeks, so many that the skin looks soaked. Her voice catches. The normally clenched jaw is slack. Lower lip trembling.

"You wouldn't die for him?" Pierce mocks. "What about… him?"

Future Max is replaced by sixteen-year-old Max, heavy and helpless with drugs.

"Let him go. Let him go, dammit! He's not a monster! And he's not the king you're looking for. Just leave him be," Liz begs.

Isabel sits next to her and tries to change it. Nearly passes out trying to take this girl, who she now strongly suspects is the real Liz Parker, away from her personal hell.

But she can't make any headway. All she can do is watch.

"You know what to do," Nicholas sneers, "you're just too weak to admit it. Why is this scene so familiar?

Isabel is pulled out of the White Room along with Liz. It's the desert, again. This time the Pod Chamber.

A younger, stronger Liz runs out of the cave. Stops to look at a heartbroken Max. Turns again and trips down into the wilderness, momentum and tears fueling her speed.

"But go ahead and kick him while he's down," the alien continues. Stops a beat. Smirking. "You've done it before."

The two figures disappear and CaptiveMax groans in horror, looking as far away from the scene as he can. Red seeps through his scrub top.

"Say it," Pierce urges, "just say the word. It won't stop until you do."

Nicholas sends a jet of energy into Max's chest. His resulting keen shatters Liz's last reserve of strength.

"DO IT!" she shouts, green trails playing beneath her skin.

Pierce's hand is quick and steady as he slices into her right wrist. She sobs; in relief or pain, Isabel isn't sure.

Then it's Tess's turn.

She's been hiding at the fringes of the dream. Biding her time until now, waiting for Liz at her most exposed and vulnerable; and her blue eyes shine with malice as she stoops next to the dying woman.

"You're such a pathetic little bitch. He was stupid to save you." She backhands Liz, hard.

Crimson blood is gushing down her wrist. It stains the surrounding ground like poison.

"I trusted you. I gave up everything so that you could be happy. I gave you the love of my life," Liz whimpers.

The hybrid's upper lip curls spitefully. "And he was only too willing to be given. Maybe I'll show you that first. Would you like that, Liz? To see me screwing your _soul mate_? To watch him cumming in the arms of a murderer?"

Isabel shuts her eyes when the tangled limbs of Max and Tess Harding invade her vision. Grunts and moans a sister should never hear from her brother's mouth permeate the air.

Why can't she change this? Goddammit, why can't she get out?

Tess won't shut up. "Of course, this is just how you imagine it. You never saw it from him, did you? You never saw _anything_ from him after that pathetic visitor from the future. He might have hated me, but it never stopped him from coming back for more. Even after Alex, you were the one who betrayed him." Her full pink lips touch Liz's cheek. Isabel strains to hear her for some reason she can't begin to fathom. "Tell me, how does it feel to kill your best friend?"

Liz doesn't dignify this with a response.

"Liz," Isabel starts, voice cracking.

She doesn't make it any further.

Jesse is the love of her life.

A marriage she entered for emotional stability slowly, painfully transformed into one built on love and mutual trust. For all of his faults, her husband still loves her more than she could have dreamed – and often more than she deserves. If letting herself fall in love with him was difficult then staying in love with him has proved ridiculously easy.

But Alex…

Alex was her first love. The first boy to see her as more than a sister or a possible sexual encounter.

There was a time when she believed he would be the man sharing her heart and body for the rest of her life.

Her innocence isn't something that can be regained. Loving Jesse does not erase the ache of his loss.

And the image of his mangled corpse is something she can't – _won't_ – be made look upon.

_"Nooooo…"_

Liz's cry seems to go on forever.

Then her voice falters…

Softens…

Dies out completely.

The last thing Isabel sees before waking up in Jesse's frantic embrace is Liz Parker's dilated pupils.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Ah! I'm so sorry I left you guys hanging for so long! I've been completely out to lunch the past few months. Here's chapter five - I'll try to get six up tomorrow or on Sunday. Thanks to _Kissin Concern_, _sleepy26_, and _Laura423_ for reviewing. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

...

Streets that I chanced upon,-  
you had just walked down them and vanished.  
And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors  
were still dizzy with your presence and, startled,  
gave back my too-sudden image. Who knows?  
perhaps the same bird echoed through both of us  
yesterday, seperate, in the evening

...

-- Rainer Maria Rilke

Part Five

She's choking on her own vomit when she comes to.

There's no air to inhale, no energy for her to prop herself up; no will to even try.

She's terrified and useless.

_Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God_ –

The ache is bone-deep and excruciating.

Black eventually crowds her vision, and survival instincts kick in. She rolls onto her side with supreme effort. Her emptying stomach turns again and again as self-loathing creeps up, making her heave until everything she has to give has been gone for five minutes.

At least she won't have to wash it out of her hair.

Soft, unobtrusive tears drip from the corners of her eyes.

Eventually it's over and she falls onto her back. Clinically inspecting the fallout as she tries to forget the hell that is her nightmares.

Singe marks decorate the fist-sized holes on either side of her comforter. The ceiling didn't make out too well either by the looks of it. Shards of her favorite vase are tangled in her hair.

There's no point in trying to fix any of the damage yet. She's still too weak.

The clang of ceramic hitting wood reaches her ears. Eileen's soft voice curses into the early morning, and Liz sighs in frustration.

She knows what the other woman is doing up. She knows that as long as they're roommates, the chance of either of them getting a decent night's sleep is a far-off dream.

But Eileen refuses to move out. And since her stubborn friend is nocturnal anyway and she's terrified at the thought of being alone, Liz doesn't say much about it.

She knows her refusal to be comforted is bewildering. She knows that Eileen just about bursts a blood vessel in her brain every time she refrains from asking questions.

There's just no helping it.

There's nothing Eileen could do if she knew all the gory details. Her night terrors are based in reality, and no amounts of hugs or pitying glances are going to set the past right. The only thing that could isn't even in earth's atmosphere anymore.

She would not use the granilith to wipe out Max and Tess's son. She would not use it to erase the painful October night when she lost her innocence but kept her virginity.

But for Alex…

For Alex she would do it, the rest of the world be damned.

_"Tell me, how does it feel to kill your best friend?"_

She doesn't even have the strength to sit up; but somehow, some bottomless, untapped source of energy deep inside her gets broken into just for this. Painful alien lightening does its customary country two-step up and down the length of her body.

For long minutes conscious thought is gone. She's enveloped in blinding pain as she does her damnedest to break out of her near-comatose state, all without success.

And finally she simply surrenders to it.

Fire ripping through her veins.

Heart beating sluggish and loud in her chest.

Blood, and maybe she's bitten through her tongue again or maybe some of that glass is wedged into her neck (here's to hoping it's nicked a vital artery).

A sick, perverse part of her enjoys this.

Right in this moment there are no reminders. She can hardly recall her own name, much less the workings of a time machine or a shapeshifter's betrayal.

There's no Max.

There's no Alex.

There's no baby; no far-off planet in need of saving; no alien queens.

The past six years don't exist.

_(Or maybe they just don't count.)_

She wants to stay here, in this world where Max can't touch her soul (because she doesn't have one) and regrets can't plough through her mind (because she's losing it). She wishes for miserable and dead and safe.

Gradually it eases up.

Liz draws in an enormous breath, and feels her throat is raw from screaming. She didn't even hear herself.

The realization makes Max's remembered scream echo in her head; and because it's impossible not to in the face of such pain, she lets herself cry for another few minutes.

The shame that sound incites in her covers so many events.

Shame for leaving him after Pierce.

Shame that she and her worthless life were the reason he was abducted in the first place.

Shame for doing everything short of accusing him of murdering Alex when she _knew_ the fault was hers and hers alone.

She does her best to push it away. Reminds herself that she never even _really_ heard it. It's a futile effort, though; the sound is as familiar to her as her own rasping sobs. And by now it's part of the nightly show.

Nothing – not Alex's dead body, not Future Max and Nicholas, not even Tess's graphic visuals – is worse than when she's forced to see him tortured. Over and over it happens, each time bringing him more pain and extinguishing more of the light in his eyes.

She watches it all.

The emaciated body. The broken spirit.

The heart that hardens a little more every time he is threatened, poked, prodded.

(And maybe that stings more than anything, because that gentle, near-sacred heart of his is the one thing she ever _really_ let herself believe in.)

She's not sure if it'll ever get any easier to see.

Lately, it just seems to be getting harder.

For awhile she wonders at the new intensity of her nightmares, but she reaches no conclusions and eventually pushes the thoughts aside. She tends to do this a lot when faced with unalterable truths.

It's almost four, and in an hour she'll be leaving for her morning shift at the hospital. She shakes her head as she considers the impossibility of managing to repair her room and shower all within an hour's time. Groans loudly when she sees the scorch marks on her desk.

Coffee is most definitely in order.

-

"No. Friggin'. Way!"

Liz looks up as she steps out of the bathroom and sees Eileen sitting, seemingly paralyzed, on their living room couch. The boxed seventh season of Gilmore Girls rests on the coffee table, and the credits roll on the TV screen.

Hearing Liz, she turns to face her accusingly. "You should have warned me. You know I'm in love with Luke. You _know_ I've been pulling for Rory and Jess ever since he joined the show. But you just let me walk into the worst, most ambiguous ending ever!"

Her face is pale, only illuminated by the light filtering from the kitchen. The green eyes so like her sister's are round and wounded. On her the expression looks uncharacteristically innocent.

Appearances are deceiving.

Gilmore Girls is their shared fetish. Eileen spent most of last spring commuting out of state for free-lance work and missed most of the final season. She refused to be spoiled and bought the DVDs as soon as they came out. After her last job she's finally had a chance to take a much-deserved break, and has been utilizing that time off to catch up on everything she missed.

There hasn't been a moment of non-TV related conversation in the apartment since.

And where Liz watches for the banter between Rory and Lorelai, the latter of whom she finds strangely reminiscent of Maria, Eileen's belief in the onscreen romances approaches religious. If she doesn't tread carefully now, she'll spend the morning locked in a debate.

She shrugs helplessly. "Luke and Lorelai are on the road to reconciliation… probably. And at least Rory broke up with Logan."

"That's true," Eileen allows. She shudders slightly. "God, he turned out to be such an ass." Her voice is unreasonably smug as she says this.

Her eyebrows rise to her hairline, and even though she knows she shouldn't be prolonging this discussion, she just can't resist. "And Jess treated her so much better?"

"At least he wasn't a cheating, controlling, bastard," Eileen snaps. The ire in her voice isn't directed at her friend, but it's intimidating all the same. Her eyes take in Liz's disconcerted expression and she settles back into the sofa with a smirk. Then she drives in the final nail. "Besides, who else was she going to end up with? _Dean_?"

She contemplates this. "Well, I guess that's why they had her end the show alone. And there's always what's-his-name… Tristan! There's always Tristan."

Her roommate looks at her as if she's the stupidest creature on the planet. "You did not seriously just suggest that Rory hook up with Chad Michael Murray, the biggest douche bag in recent history."

The palpitations of her heart, something she was previously able to ignore, now swing crazily out of control. Her vision rapidly becoming hazy, Liz grapples for composure. She's chilled to the bone when it dances just beyond her reach; taunting her and making her breath come in short, panicked bursts.

It's nothing that Eileen says or does. It's not even a particular thought she has.

But suddenly, everything about the morning she's been mindlessly repressing hits her between the eyes. It's hard to breathe and her hands are practically smoking and, oh God, is that burning feeling in her stomach the start of _more_ tears?

Eileen sees, because it's impossible not to. Reaches out to grasp her hand.

Liz pulls away before their skin makes contact. Staring at the extended appendage like it's a blazing hot stove, and her eyes are fearful and guilty.

She wants so badly to feel some physical expression of love right now, to be reassured that it's still possible for someone to care about her. But she knows that her touch could seriously injure or even kill her friend.

In the end, it just isn't worth it to be brave.

Liz hears the rustling of crimson strands rearranging themselves as the other woman looks down at the top edge of the couch. Somewhere during their conversation the sun has risen, and the weak morning light makes the black fabric look grey.

For a full ten minutes she's able to convince herself this is actually an interesting development while she tries to calm down.

There's strange knowing in her roommate's face when they lock eyes: ready to impart the kind of wisdom only family or a very close friend can. "I can never figure out why you decide to hate yourself."

The words are soft and loving. Hurtful in a way that few things are, because they do their best to violate the one recess in her mind where no one gets to go.

Liz wants to explain. Confess. But in truth she's not really sure, either.

Tears glitter in Eileen's eyes. "If it's that bad, Liz, why can't you hate him? Or her? They're the ones who deserve it. Hell, you can even take it out on Rena or me. God knows we work our aggression off on each other and you often enough."

She almost breaks right then.

Almost says,

'I know, but I'm so afraid that if I yell I'll never stop and that if I strike out I'll break something else that's important to me – and the two of you are so important; the only people left that I haven't hurt.'

It's on the tip of her tongue to tell her that she hated Tess for a long time and it only made her characterize everything she despised in the other woman. That trying to hate Max eats away at her soul until all the good parts are gone.

At least hating herself is something she can control. The only thing, these days.

If she's killing herself it's because she's dying slowly anyway.

"Please," she begs.

She just can't do this right now.

Eileen must hear the sob catching in her throat, because she relents. It's an abnormally unproblematic truce.

Liz pads into the kitchen and quickly retrieves a mug and their thick glass carafe. Pours her coffee with shaking hands.

The first sip is acid in her mouth.

"You spiked our morning caffeine dosage?" she says incredulously.

Eileen is unrepentant as she tosses her hair over her shoulder. The usual shine in her eyes is still shadowed by something deeper and more melancholy, but the simple gesture seems to help chase away the darkness.

For a moment Liz is incredibly grateful that she's the only one whose demons stay with her every step of the day.

"I was in the mood for something stronger. Sue me."

Liz rolls her eyes and swallows the brew almost convulsively.

"Besides," Eileen adds as an afterthought, pointing out the obvious, "it's not as if you couldn't use some yourself."

-

Liz carpools to work with a middle-aged RN named Shanna.

Shanna has bottle-blond hair, shockingly noticeable laugh lines, and a maternal nature that has always made Liz a point of interest to her.

Because normal twenty-four-year-olds don't have a strong aversion to social events and lab technicians usually aren't capable of more than freshly-minted nurses. And most normal people don't blink back tears when you invite them to a family Thanksgiving.

Most people tend to ignore the abundance of little things that make Liz such an oddity, but Shanna sees them as a sign of some great, underlying loneliness and is constantly going out of her way for the younger woman. This includes, among other things, "saving" Liz from public transportation.

It's similar to having a nosy aunt.

Her compact grey Camry pulls up at the entrance to Liz and Eileen's apartment building. She smiles cheerily and opens the passenger door. "Hey, sweetheart. How are you this morning?"

Liz walks around the front of the car and settles into her usual seat. The safety belt cuts into her collarbone when she draws it across her lap. "Hey, Shanna. I'm doing okay. What about you? Didn't you say yesterday that Harry was visiting?"

They pull away from the curb. Shanna chatters cheerfully, not mentioning Liz's pallor or tired tone if she notices them. "He's as gangly as ever. I was hoping when I sent him away to college he'd take up a sport or two, but of course from the sound of things he's been holed up with his Playstation ever since we dropped him off in the fall."

Liz laughs lightly. "Give him time. I'm sure he'll meet some people soon."

"Oh, he's met people all right. He's in some sort of video game club or something. He's even thinking about switching his major to game programming."

Alex's face flashes across her mind before she can stop it.

The older woman doesn't notice her sudden silence. "Actually, sweetie, I noticed the other day that the local college is taking applications for the spring semester. If you were hoping to take a few nursing courses, I'd be more than happy to help you study or lend you some money."

Shanna doesn't know that all three of her best friends are worth millions.

She also doesn't understand why, when she's so dead-set on working in the hospital, Liz won't even consider getting her RN.

"Thanks for the offer, but I don't think it'll work out," she says uncomfortably.

"If you say so. I just don't understand what you're doing with us when you should probably be off in some high-end hospital working as a doctor or researcher."

She's startlingly close to the mark. That had been Liz's original intent after leaving Roswell.

But she couldn't focus in classes. Her powers were always out of whack, and more often than not she missed 95 of her lectures. Without photographic memory or any working study skills to speak of, she quickly ruined her remaining chances of getting into any decent school, never mind Harvard.

She was lucky she lasted long enough to make it through her program and get certified.

To Shanna she says, "I'm really horrible with tests. You know, performance anxiety and all."

They pull up in front of the hospital, trading a puzzled glance at the sight of news cameras swarming out front. Shanna smiles brightly at her. "Well, regardless, a lab tech or a nurse isn't a bad thing to be by any means. I just wonder sometimes if your heart is really in this."

Liz wonders that too.

But just the fact that she's never once been wrong, never once promised a barely-hanging-in-there parent that their child will be all right and then watched that baby die, tells her that there's some reason for her to be here.

She opens the car door and grabs her purse before stepping into the parking lot.

Nearly loses her footing.

Blood rushes to her head.

Ringing in her ears and panic and hope and only one word making its way to the surface –

_Max._


	6. Chapter 6

"Teach him to call it 'real life' and don't let him ask what he means by 'real.'"  
-- C.S. Lewis

Part Six

"Oh God."

Maria feels her breathing quicken at the sudden change in position. The man she's with exhales sharply.

"Yes… right there…"

A sigh escapes her lips.

Then her eyes nearly pop out of her head.

"No. No! What is he doing? Kevin, what is he doing?"

Kevin slumps beside her on the park bench. His answer is resigned.

"I think he's leaving, love."

"But why would he do that to us? It was just getting good!"

He gives her a rueful grin. "Well, our resident sex god probably doesn't realize that he stars in all our fantasies. It could also be that he's done with his morning jog."

Maria accepts this reluctantly. Smiles teasingly. "It's just as well, anyway. I wouldn't want our friendship to suffer because he tried to pick me up."

Kevin shakes his head. Sighs in a way that is both superior and comical. She's one of the only people privy to this side of him. "He's gay, Maria. Deal with it."

She snorts. "Are you forgetting the blond bimbo he was checking out last week? He's so obviously straight."

"He's gaaaay."

"No he's nooooot."

They stop their lighthearted bickering and face each other. Kevin smiles that heart-melting smile that would have any normal straight woman on her knees. "Bi?"

"That pronouncement I can live with," she tells him cheerfully.

The blinding light of a camera blinds her momentarily, and she finds herself glaring at the photographer angrily. "God, can't they give it a rest for a minute? Don't they have to hound Snow Patrol or Keira Knightly?" During her mini-rant five more paps have swarmed in, and she releases a groan into her hands.

Kevin gives her a roguish wink. "What say we give them something to talk about?" With that warning he lurches forward dramatically and kisses her.

Maria almost chokes, but after a moment she responds in kind. It's an absolutely passionless liplock, something like she imagines kissing Liz would be. But the cameras are absolutely eating it up.

They break apart, and Maria keels over with the force of her laughter when she catches sight of his lipstick-smeared face. Only Kevin.

For a moment she grows melancholy. At times like this, where he's more flamboyant than he normally tends to be, he has the distinct ability to remind her of Alex . The two men couldn't be farther apart if they tried, but she thinks that maybe it's the price she pays for having another male best friend – even if he is gay.

The fact of the matter is, most of the women she came across after hitting it big were two-faced bitches or too focused on their own careers to form lasting attachments. Maria hardly begrudged them this; she'd had to forego an actual life those first few years, too. But having dinner with your much older manager can only be entertaining so many times.

Salvation came in the form of Kevin Sawyer, a newly outed University student who got his lunch at the same out-of-the-way café she often used as a hiding place. Back then her relocation was fairly recent and London was a large and intimidating place for her to be; more often than not, her nights were spent crying into the phone to Liz, Eileen, or Serena. Her lonely face stared back at her from every tabloid in Britain.

She's not sure what it was about her that made the mortally reserved young man initiate a friendship. She was, for possibly the first time in her life, completely distrusting and cold to everyone she met. Her personal life was a mess. And men of any variety were something she was avoiding with a passion at that point in time, and had been since her failed tryst with Billy.

But it quickly became apparent that sex or a byline was the last thing Kevin wanted. And eventually his unobtrusive offerings of chocolate and friendship came to be appreciated.

At first she'd tried not to get attached, believing that the secret forever tying her to Roswell and the alien abyss would become a deal-breaker after awhile. While she was still in New York, more than one friendship and a few romantic interludes had ultimately come to a screeching halt because of her occasional standoffishness. It had been a cold shock to her to realize that Liz wasn't the only human who had become hardened and withdrawn in the face of Alex's murder.

Even if Michael's safety hadn't been on the line, though, she doesn't think she would have told anyone about the tumultuous adolescence that would have been more likely to earn her the rights to a SciFi Channel reality show than a Lifetime movie. Especially not during those first few years spent trying to build a future that had nothing to do with anything remotely extraterrestrial.

There were other things, too, things about her father's abandonment and her mother's emotional distancing that only her two best friends in the world had heard about and only the love of her life had seen.

Those were moments that had still been too raw and fiercely protected to talk over with anyone else; but even still she longed for the intimacy and comfort that came from sharing them.

She'd explained, rather rudely, if she's being honest, that sixty-five percent of her past was a taboo subject and chances were he would be getting the edited version of the other thirty-five percent.

In return, Kevin had said simply, "I spent the first twenty years of my life in the closet and in love with my very straight best mate. I'm the last one to judge you for keeping secrets."

Sometimes she thinks that Kevin Sawyer is the one purely good thing to come out of the past six years.

Eileen and Serena are godsends, to be sure; but after an accident of fate they were brought rather abruptly into the alien abyss. Without meaning to they rip open barely-scabbed wounds.

It's different for them than it is for Liz and her, who were there when everything went wrong. Who saw firsthand the damage that Michael, Isabel, Max, and Tess's mere existence has caused.

They can't fully understand what happened, and neither can they accept that both women have left such a huge part of their lives behind without regret.

Well, that's not exactly accurate – there have been plenty of regrets for both of them.

"So how's the recording going?" Kevin asks when the camera action has died down a bit.

There's an air of expectancy around the waiting paps, as if merely by their wishing it Maria and Kevin will somehow be compelled to offer a repeat performance. She does her best to preen instead of hide.

"It's awful," Maria replies. She finds herself getting a migraine just thinking about it. "You wouldn't frigging believe all the pansy-ass complaining I've had to put up with. 'Maria, why aren't you doing something darker?' 'Maria, a _pop_ single?' 'Darling, this doesn't fit your image at _all_!' For _years_ they tried unsuccessfully to mold me in Britney Spears, and now that I want to do one cheerful song they're all throwing a hissy fit."

He nods sympathetically. But he looks at her curiously, and then hesitantly says, "Why _are_ you recording the song? Don't get me wrong, it's a favorite of mine. And it's definitely you. But you do tend to be a bit mellower."

She bites her lip and looks down at her lap. "I didn't write it for myself. It's about Liz."

For years she'd been writing and singing relatable half-truths about her relationships with Michael and a handful of other men.

But when she was writing songs for this album, something inside her just… broke.

Suddenly everything she wrote bore the remnants of Alex's easy-going grin and the suicide pronouncement that had threatened to ruin it for her forever.

Of Liz: the almost incandescent picture she made that first year with Max, and the shell of a person she became after.

This album is making her heart break. And in some ways, she thinks it's about damn time.

She has cried, screamed, and laughed more in the past six months than she has in years. Healing is doing crazy things to her, but it's also making her feel alive. It's making her believe that even if she'll never be ridiculously happy, she can at least gain some measure of peace.

He sensitively changes the subject. "Have you given any more thought to the American Idol booking?"

She sniffs indignantly. "God, no. I haven't even watched since they kicked off Carly and Brooke. And if they're going to ruin all my songs by making them pop, I'd really rather they weren't being sung by a fifteen-year-old boy and fricking Jason Castro." She lowers her voice in case any reporters are hiding in the bushes. "Besides, apparently they're scraping the bottom of the barrel by asking me on. Michael Jackson wouldn't let them use his stuff, and Kelly Clarkson couldn't clear her schedule for a reunion. I'm not going to be someone's third choice, least of all _theirs_. I don't even live in that stupid, Bush-electing country anymore."

"But you'd have a reason to shop in L.A. and squeeze in a visit with Liz before your next tour," Kevin wheedles. He looks ahead diplomatically.

Maria stares at him, her face suspicious. The thought of seeing Liz had, of course, crossed her mind, but ultimately it hadn't seemed likely that she'd have time to drop in on her childhood best friend. And bringing her up as incentive is completely unlike Kevin.

"What _is_ it with you today, trying to be all devil's advocate and… oh. Oh God. This is a Simon Cowell thing, isn't it? Isn't it?! I thought we'd cured you of that ridiculous celebrity crush!"

He holds up his hands in a defensive gesture. "That's not what this is about!" She gazes at him unrelentingly, one eyebrow raised as she waits for him to crack.

He holds out a whole minute.

"Okay, so I'd like an autograph! That's all, though, I swear! Chrissake, Maria, I've never _fancied_ the bloke! I just… appreciate his sarcasm."

"Suuuure." Maria purses her lips and he shakes his head hopelessly.

Her phone rings and she fishes it out of her designer handbag. The caller ID flashes "UNKNOWN" at her in bold block letters, and she grits her teeth. "Jesus, I think someone must've gotten a hold of my cell number again. How do people find this stuff out?" She flips it open, doing her best to reign in her sudden irritation. It wouldn't look good to snap if it's some columnist calling about an interview she's forgotten. "Hello?"

"Maria? Is that you?" The voice is tentative but unmistakable.

The phone almost slips from her hands.

"Isabel? Isabel Evans?"

An uneasy laugh greets her startled query. "It's Evans-Ramirez these days, actually."

Something about her face must give her away, because in the next instant Kevin is calmly ushering her to his car. He opens the passenger door for her and then hops in on the driver's side, quietly asking her if she wants him to take her home. She nods jerkily.

Her attention returns to the person on the phone.

"What… how did you get this number?"

"Um, Kyle had your cell, but when I called it said the number was disconnected, so I called your mom."

"You know how to get in touch with my mom?" she asks, her voice rising fractionally.

"She and Jim live together now. Maria, really, it's not a big deal. I didn't tell her anything except that I wanted to get back in touch with one of my oldest friends. You _were_ a bridesmaid at my wedding."

There's a tinge of hurt in Isabel's voice that Maria tries not to examine too closely. If she remembers how close she, Isabel, and Liz had started getting that last year then she might feel guilty about leaving without a goodbye or a forwarding number.

But Isabel has always been an impenetrable fortress. Alex was the only one of their human contingent that she really let in, although Kyle was getting closer their senior year.

And if she'd admitted that Michael Guerin wasn't the only person she was leaving behind – if she'd really thought about Liz, and her mother, and, yes, even Isabel and Max – she wouldn't have made it past the bus station.

"So you _told_ her that you wanted to get in touch with me, but you really needed to talk to me so that you could ask me to do damage control for something," Maria surmises sharply.

She's saddened and tired by how defensive she sounds, but not extremely surprised. Old habits die hard.

"You still keep in touch with Liz, right?"

The question doesn't exactly come out of left field, but it feels like a swift punch to the gut.

She talked to Max about this the last time she was there.

He promised her that he was staying away. _Promised_ her.

But then again, that was nearly four years ago.

"We phone each other twice a week," she says. Her voice sounds strange to her ears. Kevin looks over anxiously and then turns his attention back to the road.

"But would you know if something was… wrong… with her?" Isabel asks haltingly.

Maria's stomach drops to the floor, and just the remembered anxiety of a hundred other alien crises brings tears to her eyes. Her voice isn't as strong as she'd like when she replies.

"Isabel, what the hell is going on? I know that Liz hasn't seen Roswell or Max since high school, so unless… is it Max? Does this having something to do with what happened the spring of sophomore year? Did Liz somehow get dragged into it?! I thought you guys were supposed to be safe!"

"We've never been safe, Maria. You of all people should know that!" Isabel snaps. The shaky breath she draws in transfers across the phone line. "As far as I'm aware, there aren't any immediate problems on that front. But I… saw… something the other day, and it made me worry about her."

"Liz is fine," Maria insists, more to calm herself than Isabel.

There is a long silence. The other woman's voice is soft and vulnerable when she finally replies. "You're not just lying because it's me, are you? The two of you don't hate us – hate _me_ – so much that you wouldn't come to us for help if you needed it."

She's practically whispering in the end, so moved and Maria just can't understand _why_. Isabel spent most of their association with each other hating both human women.

But even as she thinks it, she knows it's not true.

"…do you?"

One last, small plea sent out, and it nearly breaks Maria's heart. It's Max the summer of destiny all over again.

She feels like sobbing. "Why are you doing this, Isabel? Liz has been fine. She hasn't even thought about your brother in years, so why now?"

"Maria--"

"Please, Isabel. It was never about you… about any of you. But can't you see that it's better this way? You guys never really _wanted_ us involved anyway. And even if she's better on the – the Czech front – Liz has never really gotten over this. She just moved past it. We both had to. So why would you call me when you know I'll tell her?"

"Because I care."

There are a million arguments that spring up in Maria's mind. A million examples of times, both before and after Tess, that Isabel hung her or Liz out to dry or just watched it happen passively.

But in her heart she knows Isabel's telling the truth.

Knows that Liz probably isn't anywhere near as over Max as her best friend would like to think, and that even this, the smallest of olive branches, could haunt Liz for days on end.

Then, because it's Liz and Max, and because they're just hopeless that way, she'll give in and run headlong back into the madness. Back where Maria can no longer follow her.

And she just can't lose another best friend.

Can't go back to how it was, how Liz was, after Alex.

They pull up in front of her apartment building.

"Bye, Isabel." She slams the phone closed. Turns it off.

She waits for the inevitable rush of questions from her worried friend, but instead a warm hand closes over hers.

They sit there, unmoving, while she weeps for the better part of an hour.


	7. Chapter 7

"There is wishful thinking in Hell as well as on Earth."  
-- C.S. Lewis

Part Seven

Michael isn't entirely sure, but he thinks this must be what penance feels like.

Every fucking inch of his body is burning, aching, or bruised.

His vision is still pretty touch-and-go, but the morning sun is sending daggers through his eyes. His stomach feels like it's hosting the third world war.

And apart from all of that, he broke Isabel's casserole dish last night, stumbling around as he tried to walk off the serum.

He's supposed to return that damn thing _today_. His powers still aren't at full capacity – big surprise there – and right this minute it isn't looking good for him _or_ the dish. But right now the former matter is the most pressing.

He sighs. Isabel loves her kitchenware like some women love their firstborn child. She'll string him up by his toes if it isn't in one piece when he gives it back.

And if the perpetual stick up Maxwell's ass is shifted just so, there's a good chance he'll decide that this is some kind of karmic retribution for lying to their sister, and that it's best if he keeps out of it. He's just a judgmental tool like that sometimes.

Of course, in the next instant Michael's feeling guilty for thinking this.

Max is the one who cleaned up his vomit, changed his sheets, and generally took care of him when he wildly overdosed the first time he shot himself up. He didn't even attempt to rub in Michael's previous overconfidence.

Even though he thinks Michael's an idiot for trying, even though he disagrees, never once has Max tried to order him not to experiment with the Special Unit's favorite drug – hasn't even tried to convince him that it's a spectacularly stupid idea.

But most importantly, he respects Michael's silences. Maybe because he keeps so many of his own these days.

So somehow in the face of all this, the God complex and that sometimes hypocritical standard of morality don't seem like deal-breakers.

That doesn't change the fact that he's pretty much screwed.

With a groan he flings one muscled arm across his eyes. Blocks out the sunlight sending firebursts of pain straight to his brain.

Max and Kyle won't be here for another hour. The only thing that will help him now is sleep.

His eyes slide shut quickly, and his sleep is dreamless and sound.

-

He's awake for awhile before he makes himself get up.

The casserole dilemma is still weighing heavily on his mind as he heaves himself from his bed and stumbles into the living room, only to fall gracelessly onto his deathtrap of a sofa.

Michael thinks for a minute that it's a shame, both for his sake and theirs, that Kyle never got powers.

He'd be indispensable in situations like these; because unlike Max and, on occasion Isabel, Kyle too has no moral high ground. The part of Michael that is his past-life self and the commander of a planet-wide army broadly applauds this trait.

Neither of them has a problem going behind Isabel or Max's backs. Ninety-five percent of their male bonding has come from sneaking around under Isabel's nose.

Kyle lives by one simple rule: eat, sleep, and watch sports in peace – and, if you happen to come into some money or a nice piece of ass, don't question it. It's most likely Buddha smiling down on you.

He questions things, but otherwise rarely rocks the boat.

There wouldn't be much of a point for someone like Kyle.

He doesn't have it in him to be remotely threatening – unless you drag his family or friends into the mix. Then he's worse than Michael and Max put together.

But nothing has threatened someone he considers family in years, and Kyle's become quite comfortable in his sarcastic, morally grey niche. It's this more than anything that makes Michael find it hard to believe that Kyle isn't still in some kind of contact with Maria and Liz.

Sure, none of them have ever asked; and sure, Liz, Maria and Kyle weren't exactly bosom buddies. He has no reason to wonder.

But Liz is Maria's best friend, and Maria officially became Kyle's step-sister in late 2004. More than that, Kyle adopted some weird over-protective big brother stance toward Liz and Maria after the shit hit the fan with Tess and Alex. It stands to reason that he keeps in contact with at least one of them.

But even if Kyle cares about the girls, he cares about them, too. And every time Max gets that cut-up look on his face that Michael just _knows_ has something to do with Liz, in the back of his mind he wonders why Kyle hasn't just given him a damn phone number already.

This thought doesn't seem to have occurred to Max. It's almost like he purposely ignores the very possibility.

It would make sense if he does. There's a reason that Michael's never come right out and asked Valenti one way or the other.

If Kyle doesn't know where Maria is, doesn't know how she's really doing, it'll be that much harder not to worry.

And if he does, then Michael would have to know…

_Does she ever ask about me?_

Michael doubts that Liz ever asks about Max. She's got a one-track mind that makes him look like a fucking multi-tasker, and she made it clear long ago that the risk of getting sucked back in was more than she could take.

But Maria…

Maria would worry. Maria would care, even if she still thinks he's the biggest ass on the planet, or even if it's only a friendly concern.

Just knowing she cares might be too much for him.

And where would they be then, if he tracked her down and said _I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, I love you, never stopped – _

Where would Maria be, torn between her dreams and her best friend and the danger that his very existence puts her in? Where would Max be, with all his vulnerabilities laid out for Liz Parker and him just begging her to destroy him (again)?

And where would he be when Maria tells him to leave?

Because she would. After last time, he thinks it might really be over.

That stings more than anything.

It is why even though Kyle and even Max (just once, after a bad night) have asked, he refuses to talk about it. Refuses to get into what was said when she swept back into Roswell.

_(What the hell was she thinking anyway, that she could come back after two years with her fame and her money and her precious record deal and expect everything to be the same? And fuck, how did she know that all that skin she was showing would make him forget about his reasons and her abandonment and just the generally shitty situation? How does she always know how to break him?)_

A fist pounds on his front door repeatedly.

"Guerin! Hey, buddy, are you here or what?"

There's a brief pause as his visitor waits for an answer. Then, "Look, Mike, if you don't get your sorry ass out here in the next minute, I'm gonna break your door down!"

Sounds of a light scuffle reach him. A muffled 'oof,' and then Kyle's voice again, this time muttering something unintelligible.

"Michael? Are you okay?"

Michael's ears perk up at the sound of Max's voice. It is worn and tired and sad, barely sounding through the wooden barrier.

He rises to his feet in worry.

The resulting pain makes him clench his teeth. "Motherfucker," he murmurs conversationally, and somehow the flippantly uttered curse is enough to make the pain bearable. "Just a second," he adds in a whisper.

He doubts they hear him, but his head can't take anything louder.

When he opens the door Kyle is shifting his weight from foot to foot, arms crossed over his chest and breathing impatient. "Took you long enough," he complains.

Michael raises his eyebrows and squints in distaste. He doesn't appreciate twenty-five-year-old toddlers.

"Are you okay, Michael? You don't look so good," Max asks. His concern isn't as suffocating as usual, probably because his voice is just a hoarse whisper.

Kyle, who has been partially shadowing Max, walks into the apartment. Michael feels his eyes widen as he takes in his brother.

If he didn't know better, he'd think he wasn't the only one dabbling with downers last night.

"What the hell happened to you?"

Their eyes meet, and Max looks like he's about to cry. "I –"

He stops. Clears his throat and soundlessly mouths a few syllables.

Michael stands awkwardly in the doorway, his hands balled helplessly into fists.

Max's shoulders, already drooping, lower even more. He shakes his head, donning that mockery of a smile Michael remembers so well from the summer of their sophomore year.

"There were a few… unexpected difficulties at the hospital yesterday. Kyle had to take me back to his place."

The wheels turn in Michael's mind. He desperately wants to ask what 'unexpected difficulties' means, and ask Max how he's doing – ask him and get a straight answer instead of the bullshit he always throws at Isabel and Kyle.

He wants truth. From Max and from himself and, maybe, just for once, a chance to breathe without that momentary tightening of his chest.

He nudges the door with his foot, until it's fully opened. "I'm not making breakfast," he tells Max sourly.

Although the half-grin, half-smirk on his face is still infuriatingly fake, Michael senses Max trying to make it true.

They walk into the kitchen. Both of them stepping slowly and carefully.

Michael wonders if they're afraid of breaking themselves or each other.

Kyle is rummaging around in the kitchen like a midget grizzly bear. "Geez, Mikey. You don't have much use for anything still within the bounds of its expiration date, do you? No wonder Isabel refuses to step foot in this dump anymore."

Michael flashes him an insincere grin. "Don't see why my under stocked kitchen should bother you now that you're shacking up with Maxwell."

Kyle pauses in his foraging. He looks at Michael, eyes narrowed. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Michael smirks in satisfaction.

Immature bickering with Kyle always manages to make him feel better.

He arches his brows, raising his hands in a deceptively peaceful gesture. "Hey, man. I just meant that Max is obsessively clean. I would know."

The silence hangs uninterrupted for a moment. He widens his eyes for effect.

"But if the two of you need to tell me something…"

"Funny, Michael."

And even sounding strained and world-weary, Max's voice still manages to carry that hint of offended disdain that makes Michael positively gleeful.

-

They hear Isabel and Jesse arguing before they even reach the front door.

"They're arguing," Kyle states dryly, "_again_."

A few months after she told him the truth, back when Jesse was still intensely paranoid and their marriage was still relatively fragile, Isabel was bulk ordering books on _relationship boundaries_ and _trusting marriages_. One of them proposed "constructive fighting" as a joint activity – something about ingraining good fighting habits in your mind.

To Michael, the fact that she got the suggestion from a dime store psychology book pretty much speaks for itself.

Isabel, the daughter of a lawyer, and Jesse, a lawyer himself, latched onto this idea with frightening tenacity, though. They were picking fights over everything from carpet stains to Jesse's history as a collegiate stoner in no time. There were a few uncomfortable weeks, but pretty soon they had ironed out the wrinkles in their method of fighting.

After turning her nose up at his constant fighting with Maria for two years, Michael's damned if he knows why Isabel loves ripping into her husband so much.

It's something they do for fun now.

_Fun._

(And really, _how_ is it that he's the one always earning the strange looks?)

He guesses it's good that if Isabel's determined to go batshit, she's at least with someone who has no problem following her lead.

Max has already turned around. "Let's go wait by the car," he suggests. "I'll try and see if I can fix Isabel's casserole dish again."

Michael glances at the paper bag resting in his arms. It is filled with nondescript glass shards – a mess even Isabel on a good day would have a hard time repairing.

He weighs the bruised rings under Max's eyes against Isabel's temper. Inclines his head and catches the tiredness in their sister's faint but shrill voice.

It sounds like they're winding down. And usually, Isabel's unaccountably charitable after a good fight. She'll probably only glare instead of full-out hissing and spitting.

Besides, if they wait too long they'll be stuck in the car for another hour while Isabel and Jesse 'make up' more extensively.

"An audience has never bothered them before," he says decisively. He runs a hand over their locked doorknob.

Kyle, who has been studying the carpeting glumly, hisses a curse and moves to shield him from view. When he's done the three of them step into the apartment quietly.

The upset couple doesn't notice them.

"Isabel, you have to tell him! He deserves to know."

Jesse's voice is calm but steely, his muscles flexing as he clenches his fists. He's obviously frustrated, but he keeps it in check. He never takes his explosive temper out on Isabel.

(Which is fortunate for him, really, considering that she could kick his ass five ways to Saturday in a second flat.)

Even with an uncustomary pallor making her skin almost grey and bags the size of Texas under her eyes, Isabel is too stubborn to back down without a fight.

"To know what, Jesse? That I found something weird when I was taking a walk in his head? I'm sure that'll go over well!"

He and Max both stiffen. If Isabel's gone looking through anyone's minds, it's theirs.

Kyle squirms uncomfortably.

"Isabel, you have to tell him."

_Tell who what?_ he shouts mentally. Of course, no one hears him and he doesn't get an answer.

Isabel shakes her head back and forth. "No. She's fine, okay? It didn't mean anything."

He hears Max's quick intake of breath before everything but the memory Maria's face loses clarity.

And then Isabel is saying her name. Saying –

"I talked to Maria. I called her and I specifically _asked_ if there was anything wrong with Liz. But she's fine, Jesse. Whatever happened must have been a fluke. Telling Max is only going to make this harder for him."

A sound somewhere between a whimper and a growl escapes Max's chest.

Isabel and Jesse whirl around. Catch sight of the three of them.

"Shit, Michael! You scared the hell out of me!"

Even under the circumstances, Michael still feels a bubble of irritation that Isabel automatically yells at _him_. He tells her as much.

"Well, you were the one to bypass their security system," Kyle snarks helpfully.

_Short, irritating bastard._

"What's going on, Isabel? Since when are you talking to Maria –"

Michael belatedly remembers this part of the conversation. Twin waves of dread and anticipation skyrocket up his spine.

"– and _what's wrong with Liz_?"

Isabel takes a pronounced step back. Bumps into her husband and grapples frantically for his hand.

It's been a long time since Max made the effort to sound intimidating. Strangely, the effect is much the same as it's always been.

"Max, Liz is fine, okay? It's just that I – I dreamwalked you a few nights ago, and when I did –"

Michael's eyes narrow in panic at the sight of the tears wetting Isabel's eyelashes. Something is wrong here.

"– I got – I got pulled into one of Liz's dreams. I think. I'm not a hundred percent sure."

By the time she's finished her rushed explanation, Max's face rivals hers in paleness.

"What does that mean?"

Jesse's arm slips around Isabel's shoulders in a gesture of support. By unspoken agreement he picks up where his wife leaves off. "Izzy is pretty sure that for that to have happened, and for the dreamwalk to have been as… intense… as this one was, Liz must be living in the city."

Max draws in a stuttering breath, choking it back out as a desperate smile covers his face. "She's here? She – God. And she's okay?"

Silence.

Her jaw flexes and she avoids making eye contact.

Kyle starts to tentatively question Isabel, but Max cuts him off sharply.

"She's alright, isn't she?

"Max, please," Isabel whispers. Eyes huge and pleading.

Michael has the urge to plug his ears. If it's making Isabel look like this, he doesn't want to hear it.

Max has no such sense of self-preservation. "She's alright, isn't she?"

Isabel's hand reaches up to shield her eyes. Inaudible sobs shake her body.

And Michael can only watch it all with near-combustible panic, because something about this is _not right_.

She seems to sway on her feet for a minute, and in one lithe movement Jesse's swung her up into his arms bridal style.

They watch in muted shock as he murmurs an inaudible reassurance into her ear. Strokes her hair.

He can tell that all three of them are having a hard time not going to her. Smothering her with unneeded protection.

When Jesse turns to address them, his voice is dull. "Liz didn't pull Isabel out of your dream, Max, she fucking jerked her out. She hasn't told me everything she saw, but to give you a fairly good idea, your sister woke up screaming about Alex and Pierce and hasn't slept since."

Max stumbles back. Looking like someone's ripped out his stomach.

No one wants to say anything else. Ask any more questions that are sure to have unpleasant answers.

"Is she in danger? Is she –" Kyle swallows convulsively – "is she being held somewhere?"

Isabel shakes her head.

His best friend runs shaking hands through black hair, fisting them and pulling. Whatever relief he might be feeling is outweighed by everything she's not saying.

Michael's fingers itch with the urge to punch or blast something.

No one says a fucking word as his brother's eyes fill with tears.


End file.
